


Whiskey for One

by saunteringdownwards



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Canon Compliant, Dean Winchester in Denial, Dean Winchester is Slower on the Uptake, Episode Fix-It: s15e20 Carry On, Fix-It, Gay Panic, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Repressed Bisexual Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Knows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28373220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saunteringdownwards/pseuds/saunteringdownwards
Summary: Dean thinks too much when he drinks, mostly about Cas. When Team Free Will saves the world one last time, Dean doesn’t have much else to do except drink too much and think too much, but he still can’t let himself think about what he should have told Cas before he died.It’s going to take a road trip, a rusty nail, and a heck of a lot of drunken revelations to change that.A 5x20 fix-it fic. Fully canon compliant: these are the moments that happen after and in between. Updates Weekly.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	1. A late night whiskey (or several), a night on earth.

_Oh, twenty-four hours_  
_Baby sometimes seem to slip into days, yeah_  
_One minute seems like a lifetime_  
_Oh baby, when I feel this way_

_\- Led Zeppelin, Tea for One_

* * *

When it’s all over, Dean remembers some advice he gave Cas once, over a couple of burgers in a different time. 

“There’s some stuff you just gotta let go,” he’d told him. "The people you let down, the ones you can’t save … You’ve got to forget about them. For your own good.”

Cas had given him a one hell of a skeptical look then, the kind that stares right into your soul. It was bullshit, and he and Cas both knew it, but it was very good advice just the same. Dean only wishes he were better at buying his own bullshit. 

He’s sitting in the bunker, alone, with a glass of whiskey in hand. It’s late, long past Sam’s bedtime (he wakes up early in the mornings to _run_ , now) and it’s quiet. The only sounds are the occasional clink of Dean’s glass, Miracle’s soft snore echoing from his corner of the couch, and the low rumble of the AC unit. It’s the kind of quiet that lends itself to self-reflection, and Dean lets himself sink into it. 

Dean has lost so many people he should have gotten used to it. That was the life, rattling off a longer list of dead family and friends than most people invite to their wedding. Knowing you’ll probably be dead before most of the members of Zeppelin and wondering how the hell you even outlived John Bonham and made it to 40. Despite all that, Dean could never forget, could never let go of the people he couldn’t save. The best he’d ever been able to do was shove it all down and cope. Coping was how you stayed alive another day to fight to make their sacrifices worth something. Sometimes coping meant putting every bit of energy into ganking whatever took them, into killing as many evil sons-of-bitches as you possibly can. Sometimes it meant whiskey every night until you could sleep. Sometimes it meant time, and distraction, and trying very hard to believe your own bullshit advice. 

All of that fell apart when it came to Cas. It always had. Cas had died six times, and each time Dean carefully rolled up a dirty trench-coat into the trunk of the Impala and promptly sunk shoulder-deep into a swamp of bargaining, anger and denial that no amount of violence, alcohol, time or unprompted heart-to-hearts from Sam could get him out of. Cas was _different_ , and Dean wasn’t sure he would ever learn how to cope with losing him. There was nothing that would make that sacrifice worth it. 

Dean had been lucky, and Cas had come back to him every time against all odds. The coat had never stayed far from its rightful owner for long, and Dean had never had to really work through the idea of losing Cas for good. Even after Lucifer killed Cas and Dean had lost all hope that the angel would come back to him, Cas had made it out of the Empty. To hear him tell it, Cas had _annoyed_ an all-powerful cosmic being into letting him go. It sounded crazy, but Dean had gotten his big win and wasn’t about to question it. 

It had started to seem like they’d done it — Sam, Cas, Jack and Dean — they’d all made it to the end. They were going to _win_ , and they were going to do it together. One last victory for Team Free Will in the face of Chuck himself.

Dean downs the rest of his glass of whiskey, and it _clinks_ a little too loudly as he sets it down on the table a little too hard. Miracle wakes with a start and whines at the sound. Dean winces, apologetically.

He’d never thought to ask what sacrifices Cas had made to get them there, what sacrifices Cas would make to make sure they made it to the end. Cas, who had given up everything time and time agin. Cas, who was always ready to bleed for the Winchesters — for _Dean_. Cas’s deal with the Empty shouldn’t have been a surprise coming from the angel who had already given so much for the Winchesters, but Dean hadn’t known about it until Cas started to say goodbye. Until Dean had begged him not leave him. But Cas, that stubborn son of a bitch, pushed him aside and did it anyway. Cas saved Dean. He sacrificed himself _for_ _Dean_. He told him he l… 

The word sticks in his throat and he gets up out of his seat, moving to distract himself from that chain of thought as much as anything. Miracle is still on the couch and watching him eagerly, waiting for a signal that it’s bedtime. It might as well be. “Come on, buddy,” he calls, and Miracle bounds towards Dean’s bedroom. Dean casts his eyes over the empty bunker as he heads to bed, and thinks about all the people who have passed through it. They saved so many of them this week — they saved the world, in the end. But they couldn’t save Cas.

This wasn’t the victory the universe had promised. This wasn’t the ending Dean was fighting for. Dean was more than willing to die for the world, if his time had come. He had told Billie that much. But Cas had had left Dean to live in a world without Cas in it, and what was the point of that?


	2. A normal day, normal breakfast, and some musings on "normal".

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean hasn't stopped to think about what the future will hold, and he hasn't figured out what he wants his "normal" to look like.
> 
> He's starting to realize it shouldn't look like this.

_Build me a cabin in Utah_  
_Marry me a wife, catch rainbow trout_  
_Have a bunch of kids who call me "pa"_  
_That must be what it's all about_

_\- Bob Dylan, Sign on the Window_

* * *

  
Dean wakes up to his alarm and an armful of dog. He turns the alarm off and buries in head in Miracle’s fur, trying to will away the impending headache. He can hear the clanging of pots and pans and the faint hum of a radio — Sam’s back from his run and shuffling around in the kitchen, making breakfast. The faintest scent of bacon is in the air, and the promise of coffee and possibly bacon is just enough to get Dean.

This has become their routine over the past few weeks: Sam making breakfast after a run and Dean making his way to the kitchen half-asleep and frequently hungover. Today is no exception, and Dean moves Miracle aside, throws on a robe, washes down an Advil with the dregs of a bedside beer, and heads to the kitchen and reaches for the toast. 

“It’s hot,” Sam warns, but Dean’s not awake enough to hear it. He shouts as his fingers make contact with the hot bread and nurses his burned fingers. He makes his way around the kitchen, pouring himself a coffee and grabbing a plate for the toast. 

“Eggs?” Sam offers.

“Yeah, thanks.” Dean shifts the toast to the side and hands Sam his plate, eyeing the stove in search of bacon. 

Sam grins knowingly. “The bacon’s already on the table.”

“Real bacon?” Dean asks.

Sam nods. “Yeah.” 

Dean perks up — it’s not often that Sam brings out the good stuff. “What’s the occasion?” Sam doesn’t comment, and they settle in at the table to eat their eggs and toast. Dean piles the bacon high on his plate. He’s salivating just looking at it, and between that and the Advil kicking in, it might just be a survivable morning. Sam’s looking a bit… _twitchy_ over his eggs, but he knows better than to make any more conversation before Dean’s a little more caffeinated and a little less hungover.

The whole situation is just _normal_ enough to be weird. 

All that time they’d been fighting Chuck, Dean had never stopped to imagine what normal might look like for him — what life might be like when they’d won. 

Back when he and Sam had been drifting from motel to motel, Dean used to think about what the future might look like if he survived to see it. He’d liked the idea of running a roadhouse like Ellen and Jo, fixing up old cars, eventually buying a fixer-upper of a house with a permanent address for Sam to call a second home. Hell, he’d even get married, have some kids. He even made a go of the apple pie life once, though it’s been a long time since he’s thought about it. He’d made a mess of things back then, leaving behind a heartbroken kid and a woman so angry she couldn’t look at him. That year is a hazy, painful time to look back on, and the Dean that broke Lisa’s heart was a very different man than he is today. 

Since then, Dean learned that a family and a future could look different than the life he’d tried to lead with Lisa and Ben. They made a home of the bunker — Dean, Sam, Cas and and Jack. He could’ve done without the annual apocalypse over their heads, but he’d long since stopped picturing leaving his life for some mystery woman and a 9-to-5. 

He’d also stopped picturing his life without Cas in it. 

He’s spent the weeks since _that_ Thursday trying not to think about that.

Now, with Chuck defeated and a whole future of free will ahead of them, Dean’s sitting across from Sam in a quiet bunker, silently eating breakfast for two and trying to cope with a loss he can’t cope with. Sam’s been searching for Eileen when he thinks Dean’s not looking, and Jack has made it pretty clear through weeks of unanswered prayers that he isn’t going to be around. Not for family dinners in the bunker, and not for bringing Cas back either. 

Maybe Dean should’ve had a backup plan.

At least he’s got the dog. Miracle is sitting on Dean’s foot under the table, patiently waiting for breakfast to be over. Sam insists on not feeding him people food, so naturally Dean lets him lick the plates as soon as Sam is out of sight. Miracle’s smart enough not to beg when Sam’s around. 

Dean’s never been a dog person before (dogs have always been Sam’s thing), but ever since Jack brought Miracle back and the dog practically _bounded_ into the Impala, Miracle has rarely left his side. Miracle’s regular walks and dog food runs are more or less the only reason Dean leaves the bunker these days, and he sits on Dean’s lap every time he prays to Jack and begs for the thing he knows he can’t have. The name’s a bit chick-flick-y, but it’s fitting and it stuck.

Sam’s still staring at Dean as he starts on his last piece of bacon, and Dean is just caffeinated and conscious enough now that it’s starting to get unnerving. 

“Alright Sammy, what’s eating you?”

“It’s nothing.” 

“Sammy, I can feel your freakin’ eyes on me."

“I just… I’m worried about you, Dean.” Dean groans and returns his focus to his breakfast. He’s managed to evade a heart-to-heart from Sam so far, and he’s _really_ not in the mood for one now, even after a bribe of bacon.

“I’m fine.”

“You were up late.”

“You gonna give me a curfew now?” 

“I mean, you were up late _drinking_ —”

“And?”

“ _Again_.” 

“I’m a functioning alcoholic, always have been.” Dean shrugs and grins through a mouthful of eggs. “Free will ain’t gonna change that.”

“Functioning suggests you’re doing something other than drinking.” 

“I… do stuff. Go out.”

“You run errands and walk the dog, Dean.”

Dean shrugs. “We haven’t gotten a call for a hunt in a while. What am I gonna do?”

“Something. Anything…” Sam hesitates. “I’m here for you, if you’re ever ready talk to someone about it.” 

“Give it a break, Dr. Crane, and eat your eggs.”

Sam looks up, like he’s silently praying for strength. Not that there’s anyone left to pray to. Dean’s tried. Dean’s not ready to talk about it— about Cas, about any of it. He lets the offer hang in the air and they finish their breakfast in silence. As soon as Sam takes his last bite, Dean starts picking up the plates. 

“Thanks, I’ll clean up here and take Miracle for a walk.” Dean piles up the dishes and heads to the kitchen before Sam can respond, Miracle trailing at his heels. 

* * *

When Dean gets back from walking Miracle, the bunker is quiet except for the faint hum of a radio from Sam’s room. Dean makes his way back to the kitchen and grabs a few beers, because fuck it, it’s almost noon and five o’clock somewhere. Out of habit more than anything else, he settles down on the couch for a daytime Dr. Sexy marathon. Miracle trails behind him and tucks into his side, between Dean and what used to be Cas’ spot. 

“Hey buddy, good boy.” Dean scratches behind Miracle’s ears and looks determinedly at the tv. He’s watched plenty of television by himself, for fuck’s sake, even when Cas was around. This is fine. Dean’s got a beer in hand and Dr. Sexy’s got his cowboy boots on and everything can be Dean’s kind of normal for a little while.

Several hours and too many beers to count later, Dean’s still sprawled on the couch, but he’s long since stopped focusing on the tv. Dr. Sexy has just discovered that his patient, Steve, has been banging Dr. Sexy’s twin brother, but Dean barely notices. Instead of staring at the TV, he’s staring at the empty spot on the couch where Cas should be, and he hates himself for it. He downs the rest of his beer. 

As much as Dean doesn’t want to admit it, Sam’s right. He should be doing something other than _this_. 

The only thing Dean wants to do besides drink himself into oblivion is bring Cas back and tell him to sit his ass down on that spot on the couch where he belongs, and he’s _tried_. Ever since Billie told Sam about the Empty, years ago, they’d read every book and checked every resource they could find, and there’s _nothing_. Dean has spent hours just drunkenly staring at the shelves in the men of letters’ library hoping there’s one book they missed. There’s just no getting into the Empty, not without Jack— and Dean prays to Jack every damn day.

But it’s been weeks, turning into months, and Cas is no closer to joining Dean for TV night than he was before they defeated Chuck. Dean’s not gonna start coping all of a sudden, but Cas sacrificed himself so Dean could live. Maybe Dean owes it to Cas to at least try to live without screwing it all up and wasting it on booze and daytime television. 

Hell, even if Cas came back by some miracle, Dean wouldn’t want Cas to find him like this. Dean’s never managed to deal with Cas dying before, but at least he had some mission, some purpose until now. Saving Sam, saving humanity, stopping the apocalypse. He’s always been a mess on his own time, but was able to get his shit together enough to do what needed to be done.

Now, with Chuck out of the picture and most monsters seemingly taking a breather, Dean’s got nothing to do besides live and he’s barely managing that. He doesn't even know what he wants living to look like. Who knew that preventing apocalypse after apocalypse was actually gonna be easier than figuring out what comes after?

Still, Cas sacrificed himself to give Dean the chance to figure it out. Dean owes him this much.

Dean gives Miracle another good hard scratch between the ears. “Yeah, buddy, at least you’re happy. You don’t have to worry about the future.” Miracle barks, and Dean hums thoughtfully.

Yeah, he owes it to Cas and his sacrifice to do better, to be better than this. There’s no way in hell he’s gonna stop drinking and join Sam on his self-improvement shit any time soon, but maybe it’s time to put the functioning back in functioning alcoholic. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean hasn't quite put two-and-two together about why he can't picture a future without Cas, but he'll get there sooner than he knows. 
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter. Let me know what you think!


	3. Another late night whiskey on earth, this time for two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam talks about Eileen, and Dean (almost) tells Sam about Cas.

_You can't always get what you want_  
_But if you try sometimes_  
_Well, you might find_  
_You get what you need_

_\- The Rolling Stones, You Can’t Always Get What You Want_

Dean starts by looking for jobs. He’s still feeling the effect of a few too many beers as he heads to his room, but it’s only the interview you’ve gotta be sober for. Without thinking, he grabs another beer from the fridge on the way to his room and places it next to his computer. 

Dean sticks a mix tape in his tape deck and pulls up Google. As the music starts softly playing in the background, he stares at the screen, fixated at the blinking cursor over his search bar. It’s been so long since he’s looked for a job outside of hunting — not since Michigan, since Lisa. He doesn’t knows where to look or what to look for, except that it’s gotta be something that doesn’t require a resume. He’s got plenty of experience in the family business, but decades of saving people and hunting things that go bump in the nights isn’t exactly resume-worthy. Even a hunter’s marketable skills are questionable at best, likely to get you a visit from the FBI at worst. Dean’s perfectly maintained baby and ability to carry heavy objects is all he’s got.

He starts out typing ‘J _obs in Lebanon, Kansas_ ’, and while most of the results are looking for truck drivers (and he’s not driving anything other than his baby), after some time and a half-finished beer, he finds a local construction company with a job opening, a garage a few towns over looking for a mechanic, and a hardware store looking for some part-time help. None of them ask for a resume, just some basic details and any relevant skills, and they all use a good old fashioned paper application to be dropped off in person. 

Dean prints out the application forms, fills in his name and contact information, and places them on his desk. The neatly-printed name and address stares back at his like a promise of a different life, of some kind of future. He runs his finger over the letters and nods, satisfied for now. He’s not sure if this means he’s gonna quit hunting. He’s not sure if any of it would be long term. But Cas would be proud of him, he hopes. For trying. He’ll drop them off later this week. 

There’s a knock on the door and Dean’s head jerks up, startled. He covers up the resumes with some of the crap on his desk and swings the chair around to face his bed. He’s not sure _why_ he’s not ready to tell Sam yet, but he isn’t. 

“Come in.”

Sam pushes the door open with his foot, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses in hand. “Hey, Dean. I know I gave you some crap about drinking alone this morning but… do you want some company?”

“No run tomorrow?”

“No,” Sam replies, "I’m taking a rest day.”

“Yeah? Alright.” Dean reaches out and takes a glass of whiskey from Sam, then takes a seat on the edge of his bed. Sam takes the now-empty chair as an invitation to sit at the desk, and Dean steals a glance over Sam’s shoulder to make sure the applications are well covered at his desk. The surface looks like it got struck by a boozy hurricane and Dean leans back, satisfied his secret is safe. 

“Cheers, Sam.”

“Cheers.” 

Dean raises his eyebrows as Sam downs his glass in one go. “You alright there, Sammy?”

Sam grimaces. “Yeah, just… rough day.” Dean wonders if ‘rough day’ means bad news on the Eileen front, and he’s just drunk enough to broach the topic. 

“You still think about the apple pie life? Wife and kids and all that?” Dean asks, and Sam startles, looking everywhere but at Dean. If that’s not a tell, Dean’ll eat his socks. 

“Where’s that coming from?” 

“Well, Chuck’s not Chuck Almighty any more and the world ain’t ending with Jack in charge. We’re just hunters now, not the guys in charge of the apocalypse. You can finally put down the family business,” Dean offers, “if you wanted to.”

“Okay, yeah,” Sam admits, “I mean… not that I’m leaving the bunker any time soon, but… yeah, with Chuck gone, I think about it.” 

“Wife and kids and all that?” Dean gestures vaguely, whiskey sloshing against the rim of the glass.

“Yeah… wife and kids and all that.”

“You ever think about who?” Dean keeps his tone purposefully casual and takes a sip of his whiskey. 

Sam takes the bait. “I’m looking for Eileen,” Sam says guiltily, then exhales slowly. “I have her phone and no real way to contact her, but I think she might be it for me… if she’s still…” The words hang in the air, then Sam looks down at his glass and continues in a softer tone. “I’m sorry, Dean— I should’ve told you, but honestly? I didn’t know how you’d react. We lost Cas, and Jack’s gone, and I didn’t want to burden you with this, too.” 

Dean snorts and Sam looks up, confused. “I knew, Sammy.”

“You… knew?”

“Sammy, you’ve been ‘looking for cases’ for hours every day. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out.”

“I could’ve been looking for cases!”

“Then there’s the damn car— that red Valiant’s been sitting in the garage and you’ve been treating her almost as well as Baby. You’re not a _car person,_ Sam, so why else would you be keepin’ it?”

“You’re not a dog person, either,” Sam shoots back.

“Miracle’s different.” 

Sam doesn’t challenge Dean on that one, and their banter dissipates as quickly as it started. Sam sighs and pours them both another glass of whiskey. 

“Okay, maybe it’s a little obvious.” Sam admits. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“We both have shit we don’t want to talk about. I’m not gonna be a hypocrite about yours.” 

It’s true, though not the whole truth. Dean leaves out the fact that finding Eileen inevitably means Sam leaving, and as much as he wants the best for his brother, he’s selfishly not ready to face an empty bunker. That’s another conversation for another day. 

“Any luck?” Dean asks.

“No, not yet - I figure she’s probably either furious at me or in some hospital somewhere, and I can’t figure out which.”

“I hope she’s mad at you. You probably deserve it.”

“Thanks for that Dean.” Sam rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile there.

“Seriously, man, I hope you find her,” Dean says, suddenly sincere. “You deserve… a future outside of this. To be happy. That’s what we fought Chuck for, right?”

“Yeah.” Sam goes quiet for a moment, then asks. “What about you?”

“What about me?” 

“Apple pie life… uh, kids…” Sam stumbles over kids and leaves out wife. Dean doesn’t think too hard about the omission. It was probably nothing— the time of night, the whiskey, a tired slurring of words. 

“Not really,” Dean pauses. “I mean… I already helped raise a kid to be God. I’m not gonna make any other kids compete with _that_.” Sam laughs.

“And another one who said yes to Lucifer,” Sam says wryly, gesturing at himself. 

“He turned out alright in the end. _Terrible_ taste in music though.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a while, passing the whiskey between them until Dean has gone through the A and B sides of several tapes and the bottle is only a quarter-full. Dean’s pleasantly warm from the whiskey and absent-mindedly humming along to “House of the Rising Sun” playing from the tape deck. Sam yawns occasionally but makes no move to leave, and Miracle has made himself comfortable in the blankets on Dean’s bed and is softly snoring. 

It briefly feels like home, the way the bunker used to. It’s the most relaxed Dean has felt since the apocalypse, and he luxuriates in it until the thought comes out of nowhere, unbidden.

_Cas told me he loved me._

It’s the first time Dean has let himself think about it since Cas was taken by the Empty, and it crashes into the quiet picture of domesticity like a meteor. He wants to fling the thought away far, far away from his head and not have to face this now, but the more logical part of his brain, the part that sounds a little too much like Sam, is telling him that he needs to face this and _now_ is the best time— at home and comfortable and less-anxiety ridden than he’s been in weeks. Dean looks over at Sam, and the words are almost on Dean’s lips before he thinks twice. It’d be so easy to tell Sam, now, and not have to face these words alone.

Sam yawns loudly and starts to push himself upright, and the words die on Dean’s lips. 

“This has been really nice, man, but I’m beat.” Sam picks up his empty glass and pushes the chair back in. “Goodnight, Dean. Get some sleep, will you?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll try,” Dean answers. “G’night Sammy.” It’s probably for the best he didn’t say anything. Maybe he’s ready to _think_ about it, but it doesn’t mean he’s ready to talk about it. 

Dean waits until Sam has left the room and closed the door before he lets himself think it again. 

_Cas told me he loved me._

_Cas loved me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The working title for this story on my computer was "Dean Winchester isn't Homophobic (He's just Deeply in Denial)".
> 
> In the next chapter, we're wading right into that pool of denial. It's time for that Big Bi Panic.


	4. A drunken moment of bisexual panic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do straight dudes not think about Han Solo like that, or cowboys, or an angel in the lord in a male vessel?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, and thanks for your patience! It's been a bit of a crazy January with very little time for writing, and I especially wanted to get this one right. 
> 
> Please be warned that we have a flashback to John using the "F" word, and it's not the four-letter one.

_Well I found you_   
_Or maybe I found myself_   
_And I think we knew it all of the time_   
_We fit together_   
_Just like a lock and a key_   
_And we opened up each other's mind_

_\- Kansas, What’s On My Mind_

  
_Cas loved me._

Cas’s last words are playing out over and over in Dean’s head like a record stuck on loop.

Ever since Cas’ death, Dean has been just barely managing to function, just knowing that Cas was gone because of him— that Cas had sacrificed himself because of him. He’s spent days, weeks just trying to get a handle on that. Hell, it was only _this afternoon_ that Dean had started to think there’s some small chance he can _try_ to live a life worthy of Cas’s sacrifice, to try to be the version of Dean that Cas saw. But knowing that Cas had done it because Dean was Cas’s true happiness, the person Cas _loved_ … what do you do with that? 

Dean had shoved it in the back of his head behind a padlocked door with every damn sigil in existence painted on it. He didn’t talk about and it, didn’t let Sam ask about it, and tried not to think about it every moment of every day. Gave it the Dean Winchester special of whiskey and denial, and it had worked just fine until now.

Something about this night, the sense of home, the shared bottle of whiskey, Sam finally talking about Eileen… all of it had kicked down the door and Dean _can’t_ go back. Now the words he had tried so hard not to think about echo in his head. 

“I love you.” 

Dean exhales shakily and refills his glass.

Cas had learned many lessons from the Winchester school of human emotion, and keeping those three words to yourself was Lesson Number One. As much as Dean gives Sam shit for being one heartfelt moment away from a Hallmark movie, any Winchester worth their salt, Sam included, is more likely to die or kill for you than say those three words out loud. Dean had only ever told _Sam_ he loved him on a handful of occasions, and Dean could count on one hand how many times he’d ever heard them from Dad. They’re the kind of words you reserve for family at deathbeds. For when you have nothing else left to say. 

For the love of your life, if you’re lucky enough to have one and live long enough to meet them. 

Cas had learned that lesson well. Dean had only ever heard him say those three words once, in an exhausted voice on the verge of death. Even then, they’d been directed at all of them, not Dean specifically. They had been the family-at-deathbeds kind of words, and weren’t exactly a surprise. Cas had been family for a long time. He’d fallen from grace, abandoned everything he knew and his trust in them, and put himself in danger a hundred times over to save them. Of course Cas loved them, just like they all loved Cas. “I love you, all of you” hadn’t been a confession; it was a confirmation, a reassurance. It was what Dean meant every time he said “we’re family,” what Sam meant when he encouraged Dean to carve ‘Castiel’ into the bunker’s table. 

Right before the Empty took Cas… that had been different. Cas’ expression had been open and honest, his eyes full of tears as he smiled up at Dean. Cas looked at Dean like he’d hung the stars in the sky and said “you changed me, Dean,” like it was a _good_ thing, like Dean was capable of everything Cas says he is. Cas looked into Dean’s soul and told Dean that “you’re the most caring man on Earth” with such conviction that Dean began to believe him.

Cas’s goodbye rang in Dean’s head as he heard it, quiet and small and loud and ground-shaking all at the same time. It wasn’t like before, wasn’t just a confirmation of what they’d already known. As oblivious as he apparently had been for years, Dean wasn’t an idiot. That’s not what Cas meant by those three words — not this time. This time was a confession. It felt like a promise of what could have been, if Dean wanted it. Of what could have been before Cas made a deal with the Empty that took away any choice Dean had in the matter. 

“You changed me, Dean,” Cas said, and in doing so changed Dean. 

Cas had been _in love with him_. 

“Well, fuck.” Dean whispers into the empty room. His hand is shaking and the whiskey is sloshing in the still full glass. He sets it down on the nightstand and tightens his fingers into a tight fist. His nails press into his palm and pain blossoms under each finger. Dean is so lost in his thoughts that he barely notices.

How had he missed this, before? How do you not notice that your best friend is in love with you for years? Years of tip-toeing around the whole ‘profound bond’ thing, years of no personal space, years of rolling his eyes every time anyone called Cas his boyfriend or boy-toy or just his, and years of ignoring and explaining away behavior because “it’s Cas.” All along, Cas has been in love with him. Cas had been… the gay kind of in love with him, if you could call a multi-whatever-of-celestial-intent-in-a-male-vessel gay. 

And now Dean knows, and Cas is dead. Dean collapses backward onto the bed. He stares at the ceiling long enough that his eyes start to hurt along with his hand and and just breathes into the pain. 

It’s probably for the best he didn’t let himself talk to Sam about Cas’ confession earlier, because the next part is worse. Dean knows exactly what Sam would ask, because his baby brother isn’t an idiot: _would it have made a difference if you knew, before the Empty took Cas?_

Dean’s… not sure. Dean loves Cas like family, has for a long time. But something beyond that? He’s straight, isn’t he? Cas knew that. When Cas told Dean that the one thing he wanted was something he knew he couldn’t have… that’s what Cas meant, right? 

Dean hadn’t really given his sexuality any thought growing up. You were straight, or you were straight. _Not_ being straight just wasn’t an option in John Winchester’s world. It wasn’t as though Dad had ever told him or Sam that they couldn’t be gay, but he hadn’t exactly told them it would be okay, either. Hell, the only actual talk about sexuality Dean had ever had with his dad was a gruff warning not to get anyone pregnant and strict instructions to use protection.

Dean had spent most of his childhood not even realizing that some people weren’t straight. He hadn’t really meet openly gay people in the Midwest in the 80’s, or at least they definitely didn’t come out to the new kid in town or to strangers that drove into town carrying guns. When Dean was old enough to realize that the concept of homosexuality even existed, it very quickly became clear that it wasn’t something Dad agreed with. 

There’s one moment that stands out, in particular. When Dean was nearly thirteen and watching Sam, Freddie Mercury’s death was all over the news and he’d turned on their motel TV to watch the funeral of a rock legend, mourning the loss. Dad had come back from a hunt halfway through the memorial broadcast.

“Turn that shit off, Dean.” 

“It’s Freddie Mercury, from _Queen_ ,” Dean had pleaded— Dad would surely get it, he’d thought. They like the same music, him and Dad. It’s their thing.

“Yeah, I know who that is, Dean. He’s a fag who got the gay plague like they deserve. Now turn that shit off.” Dean, ever the good soldier, had listened and filed away the lesson.

From that point on, Dean started to notice. How Dad would turn away in disgust whenever he saw two men standing too close, how he’d tell Dean off for being too “soft” or “girly” and to “stop being a fag” on the regular. How the male hunters they met had girlfriends or wives, and never boyfriends or husbands. How much Dad hated that Sam had gone to college in liberal _California_ , of all places. 

It didn’t matter, anyway, because Dean liked girls. Girls were hot, and he’d hooked up with enough of them to know he didn’t have any problems getting it up around them. He’d certainly flipped through enough copies of Busty Asian Beauties. He liked girls, so he was straight. It didn’t have to be any more complicated than that. It didn’t really matter if some guys looked hot, too, like Harrison Ford or Dr. Sexy. You’d have to be blind not to find Harrison Ford hot, but it didn’t make you gay. 

And then there was Cas.

He was a freaking angel of the lord with piercing blue eyes and a voice so low it shook you to your bones. He smote things and defied the will of heaven, like some kind of celestial cowboy. It was like your own personal angelic Han Solo, and who could blame Dean for getting turned on by that? It wasn’t like he was gonna bang Cas, no matter how profound their bond is or how every monster-of-the-week thinks he should. Hell, even Sam had been all eager to impress Cas when they’d first met because he was a freakin’ _angel of the lord_. Maybe they’d been impressed in slightly different ways, but hey, Dean was never big on religious awe.

Dean has never been with a guy, and he wasn’t about to start with his angelic best friend. Sure, as long as he’s being honest with himself, it’s not like he hasn’t _thought_ about it. It’s not like he’s never slipped a finger down there, late, _late_ into a Dr. Sexy marathon after a little too much whiskey and wondered what it’d be like to get fucked.

Just curiosity— the same way people wonder what it’d be like to be famous or to go skydiving or some shit. And if he really wanted to try something new in bed, it's not like he couldn't find a girl that'd be up for it. Hell, Rhonda Hurley would've probably leapt at the opportunity to try pegging, if Dean hadn't stopped her at panties. Doesn’t mean he ever wanted to sleep with a guy. Hell, thanks to Gabriel’s meddling, he’d seen what Dr. Sexy’s dick looked like and it hadn’t exactly sparked a some new fantasies or inspired him to seek out a gay bar or something. Being _kinky_ didn't mean Dean was about to fuck, much less date or _marry_ his best friend.

The nerves in the pit of his stomach settle a little at that thought, until Dean suddenly remembers Sam's earlier stumble over the word “wife." It rattles around in Dean’s brain until he is wide awake again and evolves into a deep, unsettling panic.

Sam didn't want to assume Dean would end up with a chick. Same didn't want to assume Dean would have a _wife_. Sam, who knows Dean better than anyone, better than Cas, sometimes. Sam who is _so damn careful_ about what he says and doesn't say. What if... Sam knows that Dean maybe isn’t as straight as he thinks he is. Dean wracks his brain. Had he ever said something to Sam, ever done something that would make him think… he can’t remember.

Everything outside of this moment is a blur. What if it… what if it wasn’t just curiosity.

Do straight dudes not think about Han Solo like that, or cowboys, or an angel in the lord in a male vessel?

Dean suddenly, desperately needs a drink. He pulls himself upright and reaches for the whiskey glass that’s still full on the nightstand. He downs half of the amber liquid in one go and feels the burns settle into his throat. He’s feeling dizzy, and he’s not sure if it’s the alcohol, sitting up too quickly, or the revelation he’s having.

He’s never _acted_ on any of it, and it’s taken Dean 40 years to wonder if it’s because he’s not gay or bi or whatever, or because he always felt like the ghost of John Winchester would come down to haunt his ass if he did. Dean sits upright in his bed, wide awake and hands clutching the glass in his hands. His breathing feels too loud and uneven as it fills the silent room, and his hands are still shaking as he considers _what if._ His chest aches.

What if Cas could have had the thing he knew he couldn’t have.

"Cas," Dean prays into the empty room, "what if you _could_ have had me."


End file.
